


Retaliation

by loyalnerdwp



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Contest Entry, M/M, Red Pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:36:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyalnerdwp/pseuds/loyalnerdwp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the September FYJFF Red Pants Contest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retaliation

It’s common for people to have their own little rituals to make Monday more enjoyable. Some people pack a lunch full of treats they wouldn’t normally have, or go out to eat. Some people wear their favourite outfit. They’re quite normal things – no one likes a Monday, transitioning from lazing about all weekend, staying up later and sleeping in longer, straight into getting up at half six in the morning to go to work or school. 

John discovered that Sherlock, when he could actually be arsed to get up on Monday, enjoyed leaving the flat for a quick stroll around Baker Street in the chilled morning air. He said it helped him think more clearly, and he liked the chance to have a walk before people started filling in the city. The mix of smog and stupidity was ‘too much to handle so early in the week’, or so he said. 

John’s Monday ritual was more along the wardrobe variety, but instead of a favoured jumper or his most comfortable jeans, he had… Pants. 

_Red_ pants. 

They were something of a guilty pleasure to him. Bright red briefs with white trim; half of the time he felt mad for even considering putting them on. He was forty years old, for god’s sake! They were something like a teenager would wear. 

He’d gotten them not too long after he’d returned to London. Now that he was in a happier state, he could more easily admit that he’d been depressed. He was constantly in pain, both shoulder and leg, and he was alone. He was _bored_. His source of excitement had nearly gotten him killed and he couldn’t return, so what was he supposed to feel? 

He’d gone out shopping the Monday he was told he could finally take his arm out of the sling he’d been wearing. It ached to move his shoulder, but he was determined to be rid of the disability as much as he could. He’d picked up the regular specs, some shirts and some jumpers and jeans; he needed more than the two pairs of clothing he had. Naturally, he needed to pick up some socks and pants as well. 

For whatever reason, he’d always found briefs more comfortable. Maybe because they were more snug, or the material was nicer feeling; whatever the reason, they were his pants of choice. He wasn’t picky with them, really, because who was going to see any time soon? He grabbed a pack with a few pairs inside, checked for the right size, bought them and left with his other clothes. 

It wasn’t until he got back to his flat and started folding and hanging things did he actually look closely at the package. He opened it and started putting away the individual pairs, and he came across the red ones. He held them in his hand a moment, just staring with a look part disbelief and part confusion, and then he sat down in his desk chair and started laughing. They were absolutely _ridiculous_ and nothing like he’d ever buy voluntarily. He laughed until his cheeks were flushed and he was hiccoughing for breath, and once he realised he’d been in hysterics over pants, he started laughing again. 

As Mondays go, it turned out better than he’d expected. So that became his odd, secretive ritual. And that was for him, and only for him. 

It wasn’t a concern when he moved in with Sherlock; it wasn’t as though the man would be picking through his underwear, would he? 

Wrong, of course. Sherlock didn’t find them, but John was more careful about where he kept them. Though, it was a bit absurd that he even had to worry about his flatmate finding something of his that was private – he shouldn’t have been going through his things in the first place. But, that argument was a lost cause. 

John wasn’t sure why he felt the need to keep it from Sherlock. They were just pants – albeit hilarious ones – but there was something about the prospect that made him want to keep it to himself. God knows Sherlock would probably go off on a tangent about John’s choice in clothing and how his choice in concealed articles was somehow corrupt. He didn’t want to get into it, so he got better at keeping them aside when he didn’t wear them, and – well, obviously, it wasn’t a problem when he wore them. If Sherlock knew, he didn’t mention it, and it was as simple as that. 

Simple, until John found himself pinned to the wall of their sitting room by Sherlock’s doing and all he could think was, _why today, of all days?_

The event in itself had been nothing of a surprise. John finally gave up on trying to convince himself he wasn’t attracted to Sherlock – it was a bloody difficult thing to convince oneself of and John was a terrible liar, especially when it came to himself. 

He’d been sitting in his armchair, part of his attention dedicated to writing up a blog post and the other focused on Sherlock, gently swaying as he played his violin, facing the window like his music was dedicated to the city. The evening sun and the streetlights cast a shadow of his figure on the hardwood floor, too tall and lean, distorted but bloody gorgeous. And then it hit him, because as he went to clack another key his brain supported him with the friendly reminder that he’d just mentally referred to his flatmate as gorgeous. His fingers froze on the keyboard and his eyes flicked over to Sherlock again, and yes; standing right there and illuminated by the falling sun and rocking to and fro _just_ so, he was absolutely gorgeous, and John wanted to slam his head against a wall because he was tied inexorably to his madman of a flatmate. 

Sherlock’s realisation had taken a bit more time but was just as hard hitting. It was in the pool, when he’d turn around to see John and for just a moment, he’d felt an undeniable sense of pure betrayal. _Not him. Anyone but him_. And then a sense of guilty relief when he saw his flatmate pull the parka open and prove him wrong. Then, when that wave of tension loosening relief swept over him and he’d been so grateful to know that John hadn’t led him on to believe he was something that he wasn’t, it hit him like a brick in the middle of his chest. 

After that night, after returning home on shaking legs and spinning heads, after a shared lingering gaze in the sitting room before they bade goodnight, it was an ‘only-a-matter-of-time’ situation. There were more laughs and brief touches and grinning at each other behind Lestrade’s back. It was actually almost a competition; there was a sense of just knowing in both of them that there was something else that the other was hiding, and they were just holding out to see who could last longest through longing and intensely frustrating sexual tension. 

(Hint: it wasn’t Sherlock.) 

John was surprised either of them lasted very long; he was impatient and Sherlock was impatient and they were like a ticking time bomb of inevitable sex. 

The day of, John had a break off the surgery and it was one of the Mondays on which Sherlock wasn’t arsed enough to get up. He’d draped himself over the sofa, head leaning back on one arm, toes curling and nearly cramped against the other. His pyjama shirt rode up just a tad and his hair was mussed ridiculously because he knew it got on John’s nerves in the perfect way. He could feel his flatmate’s eyes on him, looking and looking away, determined once again not to break because even if he was impatient, John had a stubborn Watson mentality and he wasn’t going to let Sherlock win. Sherlock thought that was a stupid notion; he’d gone without touching someone for over a decade, and he had fantastic self-control when he wanted to – and he certainly wanted to. 

John finally gave up on trying to concentrate on whatever he was using his laptop for and snapped it shut with an exasperated huff. He set it aside and stood, stretching with a _pop_ of his back and shuffling to the door to grab his coat and shoes. Sherlock opened his eyes and quirked a brow. 

“Pressing engagement?” he questioned lazily. 

“Need some air,” John returned. His level tone quivered near the end and he bit his lip hard. Sherlock smirked and John wanted to slap the look off his face. 

“I’m quite confident in the fact that there’s plenty of air in the flat,” the detective pointed out smugly. John took a steady breath and curled his hand into a fist. He was absolutely sure that the bastard knew, there couldn’t be any other reason he was acting so happy with himself. There wasn’t a chance John was going to back down. 

“Of course,” John said with a tight smile. He hung his coat back up and walked over to the sofa, swatting at his flatmate’s feet. “Oi, move over.” 

“Why?” 

John pursed his lips and held back a cutting remark. “Because, I want to sit.” 

“There are two open chairs.” 

“You don’t hold supremacy over the sofa,” John snapped. Sherlock rolled his eyes but complied and pulled his feet out of John’s way. The doctor nodded curtly and plopped down on to the cushions. “Thank you.” 

Sherlock picked his feet back up and placed them in John’s lap. He had to stifle a laugh when the doctor turned a shade of red. 

“You’re really going to do this?” John asked. 

“Do what?” Sherlock shrugged and folded his arms across his chest. “You wanted to sit – you’re sitting. I was here first; I’m simply making myself comfortable.” 

John exhaled sharply and scrubbed a hand over his forehead. _Two can play_ , he reminded himself. He leant forward to snatch the remote off the coffee table, trying to ignore the way Sherlock's feet shifted in his lap, and flipped the telly on. He clicked on to one of the programmes he knew Sherlock hated and set the remote back down. 

About five minutes passed, consisting of John halfheartedly watching the telly and Sherlock purposefully shifting his feet every now and again whilst staring at the screen blankly. John bit the inside of his lip and forced himself to relax against the couch because he was going to _soldier up_ and _retaliate_. He let his arm rest over Sherlock's legs comfortably for a moment before he, as subtly as he could, let his thumb brush over Sherlock's ankle. 

Sherlock flicked his gaze in John's direction and narrowed his eyes in slight. Nothing more happened, so he passed it off as an accident and let his eyes fall back on the TV. 

John glanced briefly at his flatmate before doing it again, this time more defined and clear that he was touching Sherlock with purpose. His thumb ran firmly over the detective's instep and over the sharp bone protruding from his ankle; Sherlock's toes curled and he shot John a dirty look. 

"What are you doing?" he snapped. 

"Dunno what you're talking about," John replied, repeating the action. He started to smirk at Sherlock's reaction but the detective shifted his feet again, rubbing his heel against the inside of John's thigh. John stiffened, clenching his teeth to try and hold away a wave of arousal. Sherlock's turn to smile, pleased with the elicited reaction; he did it again, slower, and gauged the red on John's cheeks as success. 

_Fight back_ , John's mind commanded. His thoughts on how, though, were blank, and Sherlock's foot was still rubbing up against his crotch; the bastard had the advantage and he was going to use it as long as he could. John could have shoved Sherlock's feet from his lap and gotten up, but the detective would have recognised it as a forfeit and known that his plan had worked. 

Somewhere in the back of John's head, he was wondering why he was going about this with a military tactic. At the time, it made sense. It was the only way he could equate himself to Sherlock in a sense of skill. And goodness sakes, it should have been easier to do so! It was pretty damn clear that he knew more about sex than Sherlock anyway. He just needed to find Sherlock's weak spots. 

He pushed the detective's feet from his lap and stood, attempting to disregard the feeling of walking around half-hard. "Tea?" he asked, already heading toward the kitchen. 

Sherlock chuckled to himself. "Sounds lovely." 

John took a moment to breathe deeply once he got inside, then put the kettle on and searched around for a pair of useable mugs. He'd not let Sherlock win - he wouldn't allow the git the satisfaction of it. Sherlock wouldn't let it go, and it would grow to simply _annoying_ proportions. He poured the boiling water over the teabags and added two spoons of sugar to Sherlock's mug. He could beat him out. God knows he was probably over sensitive, not having been with anyone in ages. Or maybe ever; the thought occurred to him that, possibly, Sherlock had never had a relationship of any kind, and he wordered how much of a mess that could be to deal with. 

He tossed the teabags in the bin and carried the mugs out to the sitting room. Sherlock was finally sitting upright, shirt covering all skin but hair still insanely messy. 

"There you are," John mumbled, handing him his mug. Sherlock reached up to take it, fingers overlapping John's and making his heart skip. 

"Thank you," he hummed lowly, shooting John a charming smile. John contemplated kicking him, but settled for sitting on the sofa, closer than necessary. 

The two sat in a silence that wasn't 'we have nothing to talk about' awkward, but 'one of us is going to break and shag the other' awkward. It wasn't actually as awkward as one might think; much more sexually frustrating than anything else. 

John was first to finish his tea after ten minutes spent staring pointedly at the TV and _nothing else_. He set his mug down on the coffee table and sat back, his shoulder brushing Sherlock's, their knees bumping together. Sherlock crossed his legs underneath him, the warm underside of his thigh pressing against John's leg. John swallowed hard; Sherlock huffed a quiet laugh against the rim of his mug. 

Sherlock finally finished and set his mug on the table next to John's. 

The silence was both awkward and sexually frustrating. 

"You have tea on your lip," Sherlock said, staring at the TV. John reached up to wipe off his mouth but Sherlock beat him to it, running his thumb slowly along John's lip and then bringing it to his own to lick off the drop of tea. John's mouth went dry and his trousers felt a lot less comfortable. 

"I- err-" he sputtered mindlessly. Deciding that there was no way he was going to get around showing Sherlock how aroused he was - though there was no doubt that he could likely see for himself - John just muttered, "I'll be upstairs," and stood to walk away. 

He made it to the doorway before he heard bare feet padding on the hardwood floor behind him. By the time he'd turned around, he felt lips hard against his, and the wall against his back. 

Sherlock pressed flush against John, hands fisting the material of his jumper, hips pressing together. Their teeth knocked against each other as they tried to find some rhythmic slide of lips. 

John pulled away just a bit to mutter, "Christ, you have no clue what you're doing." 

"Spur of the moment decision," Sherlock said breathlessly. "Forgive me for not preparing." 

John let out an airy giggle. "Can't believe you _snapped_." 

"Don't even start," the detective growled. "I can still walk away and leave you like this." One of his hands snaked downward and cupped John's cock through his jeans, squeezing lightly; John groaned. "I don't suspect that's something you'd find very pleasurable." 

"Bastard," John grumbled. Sherlock grinned and dipped his head back in to kiss John again, hand lifting up to slide two fingers under John's waistband. 

About then is when John's mind said a little _shit_ and reminded him that it was Monday, he was wearing bright red pants, and Sherlock was going to make an attempt to remove them. 

John tried to formulate a way to avoid this embarrassing incident and still get off, but due to the amount of blood that had fled from his mind in favour of his cock, he was having a tough spot thinking. 

Sherlock's tongue pressed in against his own and he moaned softly, arms coming up to wrap around that gorgeous neck. He felt Sherlock's fingers fumbling with the button on his trousers and decided to just go with it and try not to care. _They're just a pair of pants_ , he assured himself. 

_Nothing is just **anything** with Sherlock_ , his mind supplied. 

It was just a moment more before Sherlock had John's trousers undone and was shifting down to settle on his knees. John let his flatmate tug his trousers down to his knees. There was a pause. 

Sherlock raised a brow and looked up at John. "Nice pants," he said. 

John furrowed his brow and the lack of sarcasm in his tone and glanced downward. "You... like the pants?" 

Sherlock tilted his head. "I like the pants," he mused, leaning forward to nose along John's cock through the fabric. He licked a dark, wet spot of pre-come and John shivered. "Eccentric," Sherlock mumbled with a sly grin, lifting a hand to pull down the pants, "but currently in my way. I think we'll have to do away with them for now."

**Author's Note:**

> Sigh, this didn't turn out as smut, like I had hoped. Unfortunately, I ran out of time. Maybe I'll write a porny epilogue at some point.


End file.
